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<title>Saph's Siesta Ficlets by FlyoutViolet (SleepySappho)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26701546">Saph's Siesta Ficlets</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySappho/pseuds/FlyoutViolet'>FlyoutViolet (SleepySappho)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ficlet Collection, Gen, Rating May Change, this is me procrastinating on my other fics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:47:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>623</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26701546</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySappho/pseuds/FlyoutViolet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An assortment of little blaseball ficlets that enter my brain via cosmic transmission. Rating will be updated to match the highest rated chapter as I go. There will probably be something smutty in here, eventually.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Saph's Siesta Ficlets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jessica Telephone wakes up at the start of a new decade.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The world lurches around her like a drunk man stumbling to the bathroom. It's different every time, the <em> jump, </em>but it's never pleasant. Never any easier.</p><p>Her first awareness is movement, a gentle swaying that's carrying her from side to side, almost like the ocean. She hopes she's not on a ship. One time she wasted nearly six months stuck on the open sea after she came to, and it had presaged a truly miserable decade. </p><p>The motion is too gentle for the sea, though, so she cracks her eyes open. She's high on a hill somewhere, looking out over the ocean. The Pacific, she's pretty sure. She's laying in a sort of cloth sling strung between two trees, gently swaying in the breeze. A full moon is hanging ripe in the sky, casting the golden sand in a delicate shade of blue. </p><p>Sound comes back to her in pieces, lower ones first, the deep, heaving groan of the ocean hurling itself up onto the sand and slipping away again, the echoing booms of some far off explosions—<em> please don't be another war, </em>she thinks—the warm breeze dancing through the broad, heavy fronds of the trees around her. </p><p>The rest of the soundscape is a little less pleasant. The booms are accompanied by sharp cracks, now, and she's matched them to bursts of color over the water that she now recognizes as fireworks. Better than a war, at least most of the time. There's a song echoing from somewhere behind her, a man singing. It has an odd, tinny quality, probably something like one of those new wax cylinder records, but a lot clearer. Guess it wasn't just a fad, after all.</p><p>It takes a few more moments of straining her ear for the lyrics to come into focus, but when they do it's not much clearer.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If you like piña coladas </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And getting caught in the rain </em>
</p><p>
  <em> If you're not into yoga </em>
</p><p>
  <em> If you have half a brain </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She can't tell how much is missed cultural context and how much is intentional nonsense. Well, she's got a decade to work on it.</p><p>She lets her eyes skip shut again, letting the salt scent of the ocean wash over her, letting the sensations fuzz out again to a calm, indistinct haze. As early morning wake-up calls go, this one isn't so bad.</p><p>She's tired, bone tired like she always is after a jump, like she spent that last century working herself to death instead of unexistent, incorporeal, wherever and whenever she spends those nine-tenths of her lifetime. </p><p>It's pretty close to midnight here, she figures. She must be right next to the date line. Either new years day itself or about a full day behind it. Things had been a bit squishier before her last decade, but she assumes it's only got more locked down since she was last around. </p><p>When she wakes up tomorrow, she'll see that it's still New Years Eve in Honolulu, a full day behind the first islands on the other side of the date line where the 1980s began. She'll find out that the sounds she heard last night were overeager revelers shooting off a handful of early fireworks and that the song came from a radio transmitter, something she's vaguely heard of before, at least.</p><p>She'll find out that the lyrics were not supposed to be nonsense, and that she has a whole lot to catch up on. </p><p>But for now, she lets her eyes slip shut and sleep take her, drifting away despite the blare of the radio and the thundering fireworks, rocking back and forth in the breeze. </p><p>Jessica Telephone begins the next decade of her life the same way she always does: alone.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
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